


Yes, Mr. Jones

by MistressOfMalplaquet



Category: Riverdale (TV 2017)
Genre: F/M, Pining, Sugar Baby, Sugar Daddy, bughead - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-02
Updated: 2020-01-02
Packaged: 2021-02-27 03:48:34
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,243
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22090597
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MistressOfMalplaquet/pseuds/MistressOfMalplaquet
Summary: Although he has her installed in his penthouse, Jughead can't help wondering if Betty is really his.A Sugar-Daddy bughead fic
Relationships: Betty Cooper/Jughead Jones
Comments: 36
Kudos: 262
Collections: 7th Bughead Fanfiction Awards - Nominees, 7th Bughead Fanfiction Awards — Winners!





	Yes, Mr. Jones

The key in his hand slides into the lock and twists easily with a little snick, the sound swallowed by thick carpets in the luxurious penthouse. Jughead opens the door and is instantly struck, as always, by the golden-haired beauty sitting on the sofa. Betty holds a notebook on one hand and a fountain pen between her teeth as though she had been contemplating a turn of phrase, but when he says her name she looks up and smiles.

Her bright smile, the one that never fails to his bones to water.

“Hello, Mr. Jones.” She uncrosses her legs.

“Are you trying to kill me?” Jughead strides into the suite he gifted her a year earlier and kicks the door shut. His briefcase, overcoat, and umbrella fall to the floor in quick succession. “You’re quite a vision, Pet.”

Betty wears a severely-cut suit with jacket and skirt, a collared shirt buttoned to her neck, velvet gloves, seamed stockings, and mile-high pumps. Her clothes are fit for a boardroom or palace – except the entire outfit is completely see-through. Betty’s skirt, jacket and shirt are all made of transparent gauze. Jughead can see nipples and the dark blond V of her sex as though Betty were on a platter, all laid out and just for him.

“Did you bring me a present?” Betty smiles serenely into his face.

Jughead winks. “Maybe. Make room for me on the couch.”

“Yes, Mr. Jones.”

Betty snuggles into one corner and pats the cushion next to her. Jughead follows, groaning when she climbs into his lap. “What a day I had, I couldn’t wait to see you, you have no idea how nice it is to come over here.” After a long day of work and rumblings of a hostile takeover on the horizon, the only thing that keeps him going is the promise of buying pretty things for his Pet.

The box in his pocket is cream leather stamped with discreet orange. It’s from a ridiculously high-end boutique, one most people know nothing about. It’s also Betty’s favorite shop.

Her waist ripples under Jughead’s touch, the delicious swell of stomach soft as cream. She takes the gift, winds an arm around his neck, and sighs into his neck. “Oh, Mr. Jones, you shouldn’t have.”

“Mmm. Open your present.” He watches her take off the lid, fold back layers of fine paper, and hold up a heavy choker of beaten silver. Jughead can’t wait to see it adorn her throat. “You _could_ have diamonds, you know. Just say the word.”

“No diamonds. I refuse to condone an industry that profits off sweat and tears, forcing modern slavery on indigenous populations. And besides.” Betty holds the jewel against her lovely neck. “Doesn’t this look pretty? Like a collar, you might say. You choose well, Mr. Jones.”

“Pet.” He groans and pulls her closer, nuzzles the translucent material over her breasts. She’s modest and on display, both at once, and it drives him crazy. “One of these days I’m going to convince you to wear a more sparkly bauble. On the third finger of your left hand, to be exact.”

“Oh, hush.” Betty puts down the box and climbs up to straddle him on the cushions, heedless of the priceless leather on her sofa - another of his gifts. Her clever hands are firm but gentle as she pushes him into the cushions. “Would you like a show, Mr. Jones?”

He certainly does. Jughead lies back and admires her endless legs, elegant thighs, and – oh God – the discreet pink pout of her sex clearly visible through all that see-through fabric. It’s a shocking little pink oval, Betty’s vertical smile. He clears his throat and makes his voice severe. “You’re going to ruin this sofa, you know.”

“Then you can buy me another one.”

He wants more, always more. “Take off your skirt, slowly, and your blouse. Leave the stockings and gloves, though.”

“Oh, definitely the gloves.” She cups his chin so he can feel how soft the velvet is against his skin. “Watch me undress, and just think how nice these will feel all over you. Every inch of you, Mr. Jones.” He hisses at the idea, a sharp intake of breath that turns into a hum when Betty pulls down the zip on her skirt and steps out of it. Her clever hands unbutton the transparent shirt, her breasts swaying with the motion.

Jughead can’t stand it any longer. Quickly he stands, hoists her over his shoulder, and heads to the bedroom. Betty squeaks in mock-outrage, and he spanks the sweet globes of her ass – a sharp crack of his hand against that soft, firm skin. Christ, he wants her.

“I’ve been thinking about this all day,” Jughead informs her.

“Same.” Betty gets deposited onto the huge four-poster bed he bought for her last birthday, and she crooks one finger. “I can do that for you, you know.”

He stops undressing and prowls forward to straddle her. Betty deals with his clothes in her usual way: she rips his shirt open with a quick jerk and buttons fly everywhere. Before he can complain she shimmies down among the pillows to pull off his belt. Jughead curses as she catches the zipper of his pants between her teeth and exposes him slowly, achingly slow. Her breath is hot on his stomach, tongue eager on his black trail of hair. “It’s like a landing strip,” she’s told him several times, “just leading the way to heaven.”

“Don’t suck me yet. I’ll come too fast. Just – could we kiss for a little while?” Why is it with her he’s still… hesitant, almost shy? This woman knows every inch of him, how to make him scream in a hundred different ways. But when Betty sits astride him, eyes crinkled with a smile, and puts her arms around his neck, and oh just the sweetest kiss, a mere brush of lips and tongue. So subtle, so addictive.

They fall sideways on the luxurious mattress, sheets made of Egyptian cotton and silk quilts worked in French knots. Jughead kisses her soft, soft, and then suddenly hungry, sucks her lower lip and bites it. Her skirt is off, and her blouse has rucked up, and her panties are nothing but a scrap of transparent material, and in between more ecstatic licking kisses he reaches up and rips them with one sharp twist of his wrist. This leaves her bare, open, so that one dip of his thumb lets Jughead feel how soft and wet she is.

Then she slides those velvet gloves over his foreskin, slowly peeling him back until he’s open and bare and exposed.

He shudders, and she moans, and Betty throws her leg over his hip. She’s sopping and without warning he slides inside, just the head of his dick. It feels so good that Jughead shouts, one hot tear coursing down his cheek. It’s ecstasy, so delicious that it’s almost painful.

“Mr. Jones,” she breathes. “Oh, Mr. Jones.”

It’s impossible to hold back. Jughead rears into her, staring into those lovely eyes. “You make me want you too much,” he gasps.

“I want you too. I think about you all day.” Betty takes his hand and holds it over her breast, closing her eyes with a purr when he flicks the nipple. It peaks instantly, just too delicious not to bend and swirl his tongue there as well. The soft flesh is sweet as milk, forbidden as stolen silk.

As Jughead moves inside her he can feel her elegant little slit tremble around him. It’s like she’s talking to him down there to say: _Forget all the bullshit at work, the looming threat of a hostile takeover, the meeting you have tomorrow and concentrate on me. On you._

_On us._

But even though he’s buried inside her, that they’re as close as two people can possibly be, it’s not enough.

Is she his? What they have, is it simply business or is it more? As he kisses and bites and thrusts even more deeply, Jughead feels as lonely as a wanderer on a deserted island.

“Betty,” he whispers. “Betty.”

“I’m here,” she tells him, and with that he cries out and spills inside.

#

The thought of Betty wrapped in dawn light and scarlet lace as she hugged him goodbye warms Jughead all the way to the office. Of course, she also accepted the thick envelope he handed her, their usual transaction. He leans against the thick window of the chauffeured limousine and wonders what would happen if he asked… if he asked her to give up that part of their little agreement.

_Would you stay with me without the cash? Suppose I asked you on a date to the movies, would you say Yes?_

He popped the question again, that very morning. She was transcendent in lace and silver in the early light, and Jughead said, “Marry me, Pet.”

“No, Mr. Jones.” And before he could reply, Betty stopped his mouth with the sweetest of kisses.

_Concentrate, Jones,_ he tells himself. _You’ve got one hell of a meeting coming up and if you don’t get your shit together they’ll bury your ass._

His company is Serpents and Scales, a full-security conglomerate that Jughead’s father started as a gang of rejects who offered protection for loose change. Now the Serpents do corporate, household and cyber-security.

He takes the back elevator that goes straight to his sleek office, where Toni and Penny lie in wait. As soon as Jughead sticks his nose through the door they’re on him, waving files and spreadsheets and dire warnings around.

“27% of shares,” Toni says. “Hiram Lodge now owns a majority.”

“Fucking asshole wants to break us up and sell us off like garbage,” Penny adds with her usual salty flair. “And there’s no way out if he has over a quarter of the company, boss.”

“I’ll do what I can,” Jughead vows. “Hook me up with coffee, Topaz, and I’ll go and see the bloodsucker.”

#

Hiram doesn’t touch Toni’s breakfast buffet of smoked salmon, muffins, a fresh juice bar. The man steeples his fingers during the meeting and gives Jughead a faint smile that somehow suggests victorious disdain and utter villainy at the same time. He’s bracketed by his minions, two yobs straight out of a Netflix movie.

“My father started this company to keep people safe,” Jughead states. “Serpents and Scales was much more than just business to him, and it’s remained the same for me. We contract out to international conglomerates, of course, but we’re also on call for …”

“…For widows and orphans.” Hiram picks up the blue book of Serpent holdings by one corner and waves it in the air. “I can double - hell, _triple_ your holdings in less than a year if you concentrate on the biggest accounts and leave behind all that bullshit. You’ll be rich beyond your wildest dreams.”

“Since I grew up in a trailer,” Jughead drawls, “I’m already wealthy beyond my wildest nightmares.”

“You know what they say. One can never be too thin or too rich.”

Deliberately, Jughead reaches for the largest muffin and slices it in half. “So said Wally Simpson, the woman for whom a king gave up his throne. I’ve often thought that quote is responsible for a lot of eating disorders and megalomania.”

Hiram’s smile never wavers. With deliberation, the man raises both hands and claps slowly, making both blue-chinned minions cough with laughter. “You certainly have a wonderful way with words. But do you know what you _don’t_ have? Allow me to answer for you – a majority stake in this company. After all, I own 27 percent.”

“27, not 51,” Jughead mumbles.

“No, it’s not. But it also isn’t 25, which is your share – making me the majority holder as I said. Now.” Hiram snaps his fingers, and one of the minions produces a sheaf of thick parchment clipped in one corner. “Either you sign and accept my very generous offer, or I force a buy-out on far less friendly terms.”

“Discounting the general holdings and employee stock options, there’s still 3 percent to be accounted for.” He might be in deep shit, but Jughead refuses to go down without a fight.

“We’ve done a lot of investigating into that 3%.” Hiram reaches into his jacket and produces a beautiful fountain pen, which he sets in the dead center of the contract. “Either some billionaire hid it in the Caymans or sold off the shares to Russian oligarchs. Now – sign.”

Jughead looks across at the man with his plug-ugly bookends and feels like he’s wandered into a bad movie. To make things worse, he himself is a clichéd multi-millionaire without a life who has to pay Betty for her time.

“Mr. Jones.” Hiram’s smile grows brittle. “Are you going to sign or … what the hell?”

A volcano of voices erupts outside the boardroom. Jughead hears a long harangue punctuated by Penny’s usual colorful expletives: “Fucking hell, over my fucking dead body, fuck off you fucking bitch fucker.”

“Just add an adverb and you’ll have covered all parts of speech with that particular invective.” The familiar voice makes Jughead’s heart leap. He springs up from his chair just as the door opens to admit Betty, who is wearing the same outfit she had on the previous night.

Except, of course, it’s an opaque version. Same exquisitely tailored suit (now in gray wool) heels high enough to give him a nosebleed, lipstick on and not one hair out of place. To the background of Hiram’s exaggerated sniff of surprise and the goons’ rumblings, Betty sits next to Jughead and smiles brightly. “Hello Mr. Jones,” she says.

“This is hardly the time for a social call.” Hiram slams both palms on the table so forcefully the crystal glasses jump like shocked rabbits. One teeters and falls, sending a cascade of iced cranberry juice straight into the crotch of his biggest minion. “What is _she_ doing here? This is a serious meeting about serious business, not some – some Tupperware party!”

Betty pivots in her seat to face Hiram. “Tupperware? Why would you bring up Tupperware?”

“I think it’s perfectly obvious-”

“Don’t,” Jughead interrupts Hiram, who seems to be swelling up with anger like a toad about to croak. “Her voice just got all low-pitched. Next she’ll hit us with arguments that include vocabulary no one else understands, and then we’re all fucked.” Betty draws in breath, but he adds, “I suppose you want to know what she’s doing here. Uh, what are you doing here, Ms. Cooper?”

“I suppose you’re inferring that this has become a Tupperware party because I, a woman, have infiltrated this frat party.” Betty indicates the goon who is mopping his pants with a folded napkin. “However, I have something to bring to the table, metaphorically and literally.”

The minion stops wiping his crotch and blurts, “Those are the long words you meant? Are we all fucked now?”

Opening a green leather bag with a snap, Betty produces a large file of papers and places it on the table. “Now. My guess is you’re hunting for a missing 3% of stock, no need to gasp and stretch your eyes like that, Mr. Jones. I knew when you rushed out this morning that something was in the works.”

“Rushed out?” Hiram repeats. His cheeks and ear-tips are tinged with red. “What is this, a telenovela?”

Betty ignores this. “I thought I’d clear things up. In short, gentlemen, I own those shares.”

Jughead has known her a long time, but apparently she can still surprise him. “You? How? You – how?”

“I had some extra money, and I heard Serpents and Scales was a good investment.” Betty winks, and even though Jughead had her backwards and forwards last night he gulps. “Combined with Jughead’s portion, I believe my 3% gives him the majority share of his own company.”

She draws breath to continue, but Hiram gets up so quickly his chair topples backwards and crashes on the floor. “What? Some unknown chippie with a decent vocabulary swans in here and scotches the deal? Like this wasn’t a set-up? Please. Did you want to negotiate a better price?”

Jughead inhales sharply. “I just want to keep my father’s company. _My_ company.”

“Which you can.” Betty taps her folder and slides it over the table to him. “Since you are a majority shareholder, as I just said.”

“No,” Hiram insists. “He’s not. Just because you own 3% doesn’t mean anything - not unless you two are related.”

“Ah. Well.” Resolutely, Betty pushes back her chair and stands. “Mr. Jones proposed to me this morning. We’re getting married, which means we are indeed related. And now, I better let you all get back to it.”

#

By the time he extricates himself from the meeting, she’s gone. Jughead rushes downstairs two at a time, since he can’t bear to wait for the elevator. “You need to sign some papers!” Toni shouts, and Penny adds some legal mumbo-jumbo he’ll worry about later.

He tells them to get back to the office, but do they listen? No. And by the time he reaches the ground floor, Jughead has an entourage of Toni, Penny, and a few worried-looking interns chattering about coffee orders and sandwiches.

No matter. Jughead only eyes for one person, a golden girl in a severe suit who stands by the street doors checking her phone. As he approaches she looks up, smiles, and starts to say something, but he places both palms on either side of her face and kisses her soundly. When he stops, Betty says Whew and fans herself. “Oh my. Very nice. By the way, we have quite a large audience.”

Jughead clicks his tongue dismissively. “You said we were engaged in that meeting,” he says in a voice hoarse with hidden emotion. “Did you mean it?”

“I…” For the first time since they met in a rooftop bar, Betty seems to crumple under pressure. “Don’t you want to go somewhere private to talk about this?”

“No. Are you going to marry me or not?”

“I took that money from you so I could buy those shares,” she whispers. “I’ll gift them back to you as soon as I get my accountant on the phone. Hiram leaves a pretty big trail behind him of companies that he’s gutted, and I didn’t want it to happen to yours. That was the reason I accepted your gifts. You don’t have to marry me to regain the majority…”

“Don’t have to!” Jughead can’t help shaking her, just a little, to show how ridiculous that is. “I’ve been proposing for the past year. Pet, will you marry me or not? Because you have no idea how much I’ll spoil you once we’re hitched. The house I’m going to build for us, the clothes you’ll wear, the trips we’ll take.”

And there’s more. He has an antique ring with square-cut emeralds hidden in his desk drawer, just waiting for the day she’ll say Yes.

“Fuck, just say yes and I’ll marry you. I’ll marry the shit out of you.” Very gently he kisses her again and says against her lips, “Yes. Say yes.”

Behind them Jughead can almost hear Toni and Penny hold hands. One of them expels a long, heartfelt sigh.

And Betty winks, loops both arms around his neck, and goes on tiptoe to whisper in his ear. “Yes. Yes, Mr. Jones.”


End file.
